


Rambling Thoughts that question the mind

by Effenay



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effenay/pseuds/Effenay
Summary: Unpacking a thought that streams into a river of words.





	1. Chapter 1

Within the span of years I reflect a lot more about my life.

Things that are; things that could have been or would have been.

My life itself doesn't hold a significant light upon this dark brooding world.

Those who were born without luxury, they are easily pleased.

Those who were born with a silver spoon are difficult to humble.

It is not that I say I hate either one of them or that people who were born with those conditions would follow the same fate.

It is only the matter of how much I observed based on the things I see; the things I hear; and the things that I've understood.

To be an adult is not the question of how many years we have lived; it is about what we are willing to sacrifice for the benefit of others or ourselves.

Upon the lives I've met throughout the span of 11 years, I realize that the phrase  _'Time waits for no one"_ became a harsh reality as many more people outside of my family leaving me behind.

No one will ever stay young forever.

The wars we fight in this world will always be the question of what we want and the price we pay to attain it.

It is the question of making the needs into a want; or a want into a need.

Many of us have forgotten the definition of needs in the soles of our hearts.

I sought for a want but neglected the very things that I needed to do.

I tried to prioritize my needs, but how does one do that if they could never tell the difference between the needs and the wants?

By the time I turned 20, the world has become a stranger to my own eyes; I too, became a stranger to my own self.

Each time I step into the university's walkways, I sought for a familiar face among the crowds. Although universities are institutes for learning rather than being a social hub, you can't help but wonder just how easy it took for others to connect to other people despite the short span of time they've been granted.

I remain still in the silence of the halls, a deafening silence that eats away the passions and dreams that I held onto so dearly in my high school years.

On the night of my graduation formals, I new that it was almost like the swan song of my happiest moments. On that night when my friend spoke to me without question, he listened to the sentiments that I held dearly over the span of years I've spent in those classroom environments and fixed schedule breaks. All he said in return was that we will have to move forward.

And yet my time stopped after the last year of my adolescent teens; unable to connect, unable to move out, unable to grow out of my shell.

Always romanticizing the past and forever neglecting the pleasant. Always saying that the world was a better yesterday than today.

Who knows how far will this road take me. For even the things that I love doing became empty; like too much icing on a cake and no substance gained out of it.

So I ask you, whoever you are, how much does it take to truly feel alive? 


	2. Chapter 2

The one thing that everyone could recall on the events of that day was the cloud of smoke, the stench of melting asphalt and the white sheets of papers that rained down upon the citizens bellow.

Everyone cried. Everyone panicked. The horrifying sight of the thousand corpses that fell from the sky tower brought them to their knees.

They knew that it was the beginning of the end of days.


	3. The Omen of the Sparrows

Eleven years ago, there were no sparrows in sight in the streets. The people bought, sold and lived merrily without less of a care of financial trouble as prices were scarily low and affordable to the average citizen. Many immigrants such as myself who came from the lower lands were shocked at the affordable prices as my family and I indulged ourselves with luxuries we never thought we could attain. Upon entering the city, it was the first time we saw birds of varying feathers and sizes; a shock to many of us as the only birds we saw were little brown sparrows that would only draw near whenever crumbs of food were to fall from human hands.

Before I left the home country, the first time I saw a bird other than a sparrow was a beautiful, green bird with blue and red feathers on its breast. It perched atop of my school's garden as it shifted its head from side to side. In most cases, beautiful birds such as these were often the first to be caught, then sold to someone with an unfathomable price to the common working class citizen were just above the poverty line. Those of us who saw the bird never ceased to gawk at its splendor as it sung the strangest tune that no one has ever heard before.

Five years after I left that country, I heard of my hometown's economy rising to its splendor; more jobs and business entrepreneurs would flock to that place from all over the world to invest on this thriving city. As for the country in which I had immigrated to, I saw the city in its splendor as it reached the pinnacle of its economic glory. To those of us who never had these luxuries were drowning ourselves in such indulgences that we had forgotten what it was like to live in its simplest forms.

And then upon the next five years, the sparrows came. Innocent, and eager to take the little crumbs that fell from our laps. I was by far intrigued with nostalgia as I watched the little birds draw nearer to me in begging for a meager meal.

As I recall my experiences of not having such luxuries likened to mobile devices, computers, a working television set, no home internet access; only volumes of encyclopedias and short story collections and the company of my siblings as the only means of occupying my boredom; it was the first time I realized the need to be grateful to such things. But despite the humble experiences I had, I never fed the sparrows. Perhaps, as selfish as I am, upon tasting the luxuries that was deprived of me in my childhood; so the saying goes:

_"Absolute power corrupts absolutely"_

The same phrase could be said upon those of us who have been deprived of such things have a tendency to overdose on these things. I saw no redemption in kindness at one point as I saw how much would be taken from me as I allowed many to take away what I had treasured the most. Living freely became the spiraling road to an inevitable mess.

A few years passed, and the homeless men and women had begun to show themselves more openly in the streets. As shocking as it was, I too, feared for a future in which I could no longer stand equal among my friends financially. By the time I realized this, there were more sparrows than pigeons and seagulls in the streets.

 As I walked down the street after another tiresome day from university, I pondered as I saw these men and women begging for food:

_"Would things have been different if I had fed the sparrows if I had known that the city would lose its weight in its economy?"_

Even until now, as difficult as it is to be an adult, I wondered just how much of myself was willing to make such sacrifices in order to live another day.


	4. Sample of half-shaded moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt of an old half-abandoned project in my high school days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An old project I once came to love to bits. Numerous times I've tried to write and rewrite this plot since I was in my ninth year of high school. And then, although my brother suggested he should take over this project by writing it for me, I will say that this excerpt was my writing after a long discussion on one of the few key scenes. You may be confused, but that's fine because this is something that may or may not be continued.

The young man stood tall before her. In his eyes, she saw a reflection of the cold man, leaving no trace of his innocent ideals on his hardened face.

“I cannot believe you,” his voice hardened with blatant disgust. “To think that of all things you would… you dare try and lead this country into ruin… I thought you were better than that. Better than all of this!”

With his free arm he gestured towards the overlooking view of the encampment of freedom fighters.

“We have to set these people free!” she insisted. “And we are fighting for their freedom!”

“You’ve set these people to die!” Spike spat on her words. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

An ache panged at her chest. Despite the pain in his words, she furrowed her brows.

“I have seen villages purged by Frost Hand’s men! I have intercepted with their coo. Twice in fact!” he raised his two fingers in her face. “The ships I’ve encountered held hostages of women and children from the imperial soldiers’ families! _Your_ people had every intention to throw each and every one of them into the sea! You think that just because these people are siding the side that you hate so much, immediately you believe every single one of them are just as dirty and rotten?!”

“I _don’t_ want to be lectured by someone who raids ships and kills everyone on board!”

This time, the young man flinched at her words.

“I’ve heard of your tales,” she continued. “The dreaded pirate who dons a mask of a meandering _mutt._ I knew it was you, Spike. I knew that it could only be you who fits that description.”

He opened his mouth to speak, only to have her speak over him.

“If you hadn’t sunk those ships, we would have had the upper hand of things! The imperial Telenars took advantage of your work; the men they captured were sent to the sea and fed them to you like morsels to be devoured by savage beasts. You. Bartholomew Spike, have no right to tell me of such things!”

“…Listen to yourself,” he lowly muttered.

She crinkled her forehead, her eyes were lit with fury.

“Yes I am a bloody murderer,” he said. “Yes, I have killed men without any hesitation. Nothing can change the things I’ve done. But look at yourself. Drunk in the flames of your so-called mentor’s revolutionary ideals. You think Sacrom will win this war, and liberate everyone from the Telenars’ chains; but in truth, this war is nothing more than irritation in the Telenars’ eyes. And here you are, believing that you will win. You care so much about your bloody revolution that you never cared about what is really happening before your very eyes!”

“Spike, I don’t want to hear anymore of this-”

“You never even cared to ask what happened to me!” he flared. “Not an ounce of curiosity as to what happened to Rothbury. You never even cared to ask how _she_ is doing or where _she_ is!”

Polaris gave him a dubious glare.

“ _She?”_ she parroted his mannerism. “Who do you mean by ‘ _she?’_ ”

“You bloody well know who I’m talking about.”

She looked at him in the eye. Within that instant, the image of Genesis flashed in her mind.

“In case you’ve forgotten to ask, allow me the honour of spilling it out to you,” he spat. “ _She_ ’s dead Polaris. She’s dead.”

The half-winged woman widened her eyes. A pang throbbed in her chest.

_No._

She opened her mouth.

“…Y-you-”

She tried to string her words.

The former shaman turned his back on her.

_Say something!_

“Bart-”

Wordlessly, he slowly drew one step away from her; with every step, she sensed the very weight of his words. With every step away from her, the questions flooded her thoughts.

_How did she die? Why did she die? Why didn’t you save her? How could you do this?_

Every passing second she felt the gravity of the reality presented before her. And with each passing second, she refused to accept the reality.

“You can’t… You can’t just tell me something like and just leave me without explaining yourself!” she screamed. “Come back here! Spike!”

Spike’s figures slowly dissipated into the distance, her screams fell on deaf ears.

“Spike!”

She screamed again.

Echoes of her screams hung in the air.

By then he disappeared into the darkness of the night, leaving no trace of his presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the history of how this story came to be was me having an idea of a hero's journey but with no heroes in the end of the tunnel. Much of the plot centers around a young girl who had been an outsider to a tribe where she was raised and sets herself on a journey to revenge after the loss of someone she cared. The idea was to talk much about the true price of one's actions rather than the glories of victories. Tragedy as it were, but a tale that covers a part of the world my brother and I had made since childhood.  
> After a frustrating event happened while I was writing this story, I lost all my documents regarding this plot and lost all hope and motivation of continuing it. (I was terribly depressed after that and couldn't let go of that after this day). After what seems to be almost 5 years now since I've first envisioned this tale, there are moments like these where you envision moments and key scenes that bring back that moment of wanting to come back to that story.  
> So there you have it.


	5. A glitch called reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For many reasons, this was an unfinished chapter to the tale of Eleanor Strauss story, a scene that I had thought about back in the day when I had conjured up this idea. I still think about this story for a while, but for the most part, it is a concept that is difficult to manage since I have no idea how to end it.

In find the purpose of life, one must make the first three questions: who are you, where do you stand and where do you think you are going? Although not much can be said about the concern of where you stand and where you go, but these three questions cannot be answered without the other. Or so that man once said.

“…We are now gathered in the siting area of what is presumed to be the Strauss family home,” the analogue screen frazzled at the disturbance of the signal.

Damien’s eyes reflected the glow of the television set, his mind wandered from reality. His patience dispersed at the shimmering screen and immediately switched to the next channel.

 _“Another Eleanor Strauss news reel,”_ the man thought.

Damien’s life ended at the age of 18, rather, he is alive in the present but never living. His high school years were the best years of his life; he started out as freshmen, made a lot of friends, studied his hardest, connected with everyone around him and graduated like any normal teenager would. He had known this was coming on his senior year where he had once said to his friends; “by the time we graduate, I will no longer live.”

To many around him, they thought they understood at the time that he was only sentimental at the thought of leaving. As an adult, he felt that the colours of his life had drained away from him the very moment he set one foot outside of the school gate. He was like an animate object without a soul; an anomaly without purpose; an existence that lives only to die when it reaches its expiry date.

Heavy footsteps clacked on the floorboards. Damien hoped it would pass by his apartment door. Two knocks on the door was enough for him to sigh at the thought.

“Who is it?” he hollered.

“Leon Strauss?” an audible voice whispered.

“For the fifth and final time, I am not Leon Strauss!” Damien angrily said. “Leon Strauss left this apartment a long time ago.”


	6. Politics and awareness of consequences

Humble beginnings in the earliest years are often tales overlooked by the average individual. Not for reasons that seemed so convoluted or unreasonable, but due to the fact that they seemed so ordinary in the ears or eyes of the person that they simply dismiss the very notion of it.

Of course, over time, as civilization grew, so did our mindset and our priorities. Suddenly, the people mattered rather than those who stand in power. The noblemen deemed as spoiled and arrogant whereas the commoners fought for the rights to claim what is rightfully theirs. One can’t help but question it. Why is it that so suddenly, anyone in power is so easily hated the very moment they stand before the seat of power?

All the greatest leaders in history, for better or for worst, were chosen by the people in the modern age. And yet, despite this, men and women alike were despised by someone, somewhat in one way or another.

Of course, one cannot deny it. Not everyone stays pure in the seat of power. As the saying goes: “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” But no one could possibly guess how a politician feels or thinks, let alone how they operate when it came down to ruling a country. We could never truly know why a politician does the things they do, but there is one certainty; and that is to say that the people often choose the man or woman who is closest in representing the people’s needs.

The decisions that are made that we see today: just how much do we know of reasoning behind every bill that is passed through parliament or senate? Just by the mere question alone sets a band of conspirators, along with the discussions and debates of the fundamental issues of bureaucracy and its idiosyncrasies. Thoughts like these keep me awake in the dead of night after a long discussion regarding the matters of global terror and the tensions that rise from the east and the west, whilst often overlooking the nature of the neglected isles and island countries and archipelagos of Asia and the pacific sea.

Politics at its finest, to some degree at least, often gave me an impression of a door that must never be touched. Not for the sake of avoiding the nitty-gritty nature of its complex nature, but because for the sake of knowing that once you’ve seen many things from both the good and the bad, it is in the act of what happens after you have seen the true nature of its mechanics. To those of you who may not understand, but sometimes in knowing things, you really become aware that every action you make will make an effect to someone else, regardless of your intentions. And upon learning things, you are given a choice as to whether you choose to act upon that knowledge or turn a blind eye towards the things you’ve seen.

To me, I once prayed for wisdom and knowledge; but what I received was awareness of consequences of every action. This is the reason why, I wish I were ignorant and unaware of what the world has been doing. Politics and the world of politics, unfortunately, politics seems to be a story element that I cannot escape from, no matter what kind of story I wanted to tell. Not even my brother, who is basically my partner when it came down to world-building, could avoid adding an element how society worked for every story we create.

Sometimes, I give my thanks for the awareness I have towards the world around me, but at times, there are many moments where I wished I never knew at all.


	7. Just a rant and nothing more

It is most difficult to say the things that you wish to say when the things you say doesn’t exactly feel real to you.

(actually I’m just so distraught at my current writer’s block as of this point. XD)

I cannot find the words, I wish I were better in writing and not to mention that perhaps the universe is telling me that it’s time to get real... at least for a while.

The truth is that, denial in my eyes takes the form of stories and scenarios that distract me from the facts that lay before me. The truth is, that emotion and the mind cannot seem to interlock inside my system to a point where emotions don't come when the situation demands for it. By not feeling, it becomes something that doesn't seem real to me.

The fact that I cannot feel the fear when there's danger and yet it springs out from me when I watch, read and hear from tales of fiction. The ordinary life I live in, and its counter-part being the world known as fiction; two things of a faction that are often at odds with each other for varying different reasons and for varying different circumstances.

Perhaps in actual truth, I have been always a child who never wanted to let go of childish fantasies. Dreaming of things that could happen. Because I've been drunk with fictitious stories, I realized how much of reality has passed me by. Worst still, the parasite called 'slothfulness' had already killed my creativity in the process of being drunk with fiction.

To watch the screen for hours and hours. To live like this for 24/7 just made me feel less of myself and more of being in a haze.

In all honesty, I hate technology, but I can no longer escape from it as it is a daily necessity for the average 21st century household. But in countries of the less privileged kind is actually a little more humble, simple and dare I say insincere.

I should know. I lived in that world 11 years ago.

To ask me how that life was, it was not as sad as what people romanticized it out to be, but it was difficult. "Our" first computer was when I was 7 years old. It was a family property. Our first landline was when I was 9. We had a broken TV that didn't work for 5 years. The internet was literally inaccessible. Our house of 6 members was the size of a garage or half the classroom or four slots of a parking space (honestly we moved from one house to another, we had so little room for all of us put together).

 Poverty was a blessing. But it is also a consequence. A blessing for me because of the things that I lacked, i learned how to put up with so many minor inconveniences. But a consequence due to the lack of a better judgement in handling finances or juggling with dangerous things or the lack of perseverance in trying to fend for yourself. Poverty as a consequence happens due to the government, the nation, the state, the community and the individual's actions that interlock and cause the effect.

But as a Blessing, it is in counting blessings, a lesson to learn, the shaping of a person's life for the better. But poverty as a blessing cannot be seen as a blessing, not unless you see an improvement in its outcome, or see a contrasting perspective that makes it so. I saw the life I lived and it was not the best of state. But the beauty of it was how much love I saw from my parents as they left everything behind, sold what little we had left just so we could live under the Australian sun and have a better future for all four of us siblings.

Poverty and the deprivation of the most invaluable of things made the current me look silly in many respects. My writer's block, the lack of a heart, the internet addiction and the pile of things I hate about myself; these are luxuries born out of the large amounts of time that I have in my hands, and most certainly would not go away unless I do something about it.

And then here I am. Ranting about it without a single thought or a care regardless of who may be listening or reading. And then upon my realization; the answer had always been before my feet the entire time.

Time for me to get on with life.

Time for me to make a move.

Time for me to fight the great fight that I have been in war within the depths of my soul.

See you everyone, when the days are better, when the mind is clearer and when the will is stronger.

(And no this is not a suicide note. Just in case you suddenly worry about everything I've just said.)


	8. Race to the Detoris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another abandoned plot intro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another opening to a story I never bother finishing.  
> Seems like a curse to me no matter how anyone looks at it that I never get a plot finished. haha.

In the skies of Welsentru, the rain tinkered against the light-weight armour. The wide spread wings of a silver bird flapped relentlessly as her owner remained unconscious. The combination of rain and the warrior’s weight and armour weighed her down as she fought against the oppressing gale.

The bird shrieked as the force of the wind threatened her master to fall. The warrior slid off its silver back, head first towards the hard earth. The bird swooped towards her fallen comrade, fearing the worst to come if it couldn’t reach him in time.

* * *

 

The fire flickered within the lantern, moving the shadows of its bearer. Rain drops trickled down the hands of the bearer as the girl treaded her steps with her weather heels onto the sullied earth. Amidst the dark, velvet sky; a light glinted from a short distance, falling down into the ground. Unable to see what it was, the girl scurried closer to the light. The light swooped midway from its fall as a strong wind snuffed the fire into a whiff of smoke. A loud crunch of soil was heard close by.

“What was that?” the girl asked as she shivered at the cold.

A large, shadowed creature loomed closer; sounds of splatter and soil, shallowly dug out were heard in the midst of the rain’s sputters. With a moonless night, she wasn’t able to make out what it was that stood before her. Her hands rattled as she felt warm air touch her wet face.

She extended her hand towards the unknown creature and felt a rough surface of skin. A mumble came out from it; frightening her, much to her realisation. She hesitantly touched it once more and felt the soaked hair and the cold metal.

“Just what are you?!” the girl gasped as she took a step back.

The creature shrieked, piercing her ears. She felt a heavy weight fall onto her, bringing her down to her knees.

Warm air puffed into her ear and muttered the words; “Creseck… Creseck…”

The girl felt a nudge on her shoulder. The creature grunted uneasily.

Realising that there were two before her, the girl tried to shake the stranger; “Sir, excuse me… Sir? Are you alright? Sir?”

The creature whimpered.

The girl turned from side to side, shaking the stranger helplessly.

“Creseck,” the stranger muttered, “take me to Berat. Take me to…”

“Can you stand?” the girl asked.

She felt the stranger’s head nod faintly.

The girl made the stranger stand; sliding his arm around her shoulder to lean. The girl bent down and slid off her weather heels, carrying all her belongings on one hand.

“Come now sir,” she began when she trudged her way through the mud, barefoot. “Who are you?”

“…Altin…” the man replied softly. “… where am I-?”

“Welsentru,” the girl answered.

“Have.. to… Berat,” the man said once more.

The two trudged slowly to the closest house; with the girl banging on the door with exhaustion.

“…Who is it?” a voice behind the door demanded.

“Please, you have to help me!” the girl shouted impatiently.

The door opened as the girl helped the man inside as water trickled to the floor. An old woman and her son who lived there did not hesitate to lead the man into a bed.

“Where on earth have you found this man?’ the withered woman asked as she provided the girl with new clothes to wear.

“He came to me along with a strange creature,” the girl replied, “It was a moonless night; I couldn’t see where I was going.”

“What about that lantern?” the woman pointed, “Why didn’t you use it?”

“A whiff of the wind blew it away,” the girl sadly said.

“Tell me more about this later,” the woman replied, leading the girl into a room.

“Will he be alright?” the girl asked as the door behind her was shut.

“I do not know,” the woman replied. “But what I do know is that you need to take those off before you catch a cold.” –The woman paused– “Do you know this man?”

The girl shook her head; “No, but he said his name was Altin.”

* * *

 

Rain pattered on the roof of the house by the time the warrior woke, feeling the weight of the soft, expensive quilt covering him. A stout, muscled man snored at his bedside, sitting on a chair with his arms folded loosely. Altin sat up to find a girl two or three years younger than him, resting against the wall next to an elderly woman.

“What am I doing here?” Altin thought out loud.

The girl stirred, stretching her arms with a yawn.

“Good morning?” the girl rubbed her eyes. “Is it morning already?”

“I’m not sure,” Altin said with a pause, “where am I?”

“Welsentru,” the girl yawned once more, “in the house of Leastegue.” –She stood up and turned to the window– “Your bird friend is sleeping in the stable, just in case you were worried about him.”

“Her,” the man corrected, “her name is Oris.”

“Oh,” the girl stammered, her cheeks burning red, “is that so?’

With a long pause, the girl stumbled her words; “Altin, um, sir, Do you remember what happened before you woke up?”

Altin said nothing.

“Oh,” the girl flustered, “I, I mean, what I was meant to say was that your friend brought you here and you were unconscious.” –The girl swallowed hard- “rather, I found you in the road and –”

“How do you know my name?” Altin interrupted.

“…you told me while I was helping you,” the girl smiled to Altin.

“What is your name?”

The girl coyly smiled. “Ebris,” she answered. “My name is Ebris from the house of Thestle.”

The rain slowed its sputter as a ray of sunshine pierced through the chink of the curtain.


	9. one-sidedness

In truth to all truths so far, my priority in relationships have often limited to two distinct types of which I deem with great importance: Familial and Friendships. All for the two reasons I hold dear, that both are the two valuable assets in life where I am able to be myself without fearing for future relationship damages.

Of course, Friends come and go, Family isn't always the best of company, but the truth is that when I make friends I love them so much like family just as I love my siblings like I do with friends. My parents are truly the only ones I love of the familiar sort, but that is just it. The truth of the matter is that I am a better friend than I am as a lover.

In my experience within the Romantic field is that I end up never pursuing those whom I take an interest to. My life currently as a single, 22 year old uni student had proven to me a few things I've recently discovered:

Independence and freedom is what I value, and that I am too selfish to follow through another person's wishes.

Odd as it is, I am more or less selfless with my friends and more of my selfish self with my family. So what makes it any different to love a man in a romantic context? Well, Even between friends and family, I have a reserve I don't share to either of them which is a part of me that I keep to myself and myself alone. As I mentioned once before, I am terribly selfish.

So what does it have to do with one-sidedness?

Well, as I have recently discovered, the truth is that everyone, including me cannot see past ourselves, even in interacting with others and not necessarily in a selfish way. Because we could never see other people for who they are, but rather, what we see is an  _interpretation_ of who we think people are based on their behavior and our association towards the type of behavior we had seen from our experiences.

Ever wondered why we can come to hate others? I learned things the hard way to realize that the very people I hated were more or less the same as me. Not necessarily in view or belief but more towards how they react to the things that they oppose or their attitude towards others that mirror our own.

But there are limits to my interpretation of human behavior if it applies to all people, of course. But based on my own experience, it taught me that love cannot be reciprocated for as long as I keep seeing the people whom I've come to 'love' one-sidedly in the way I romanticize characters of fiction or who is ideal within my standard. The truth is that I could never see past my own image of how I view the men I've come to fancy to a point where I can't even interact with them properly.

I can never be able to write a believable, lovable romance, not for as long as I remain the way I am. Instead, the experience of what it is like to love people without any expectation in return seemed to be a main theme I end up going with in so many of my stories. Ridiculous really. Almost in a way in a terrible sorry state. I know how to break hearts of characters rather than mend them. In all honesty, I cannot trust myself with others for as long as I am the way I am. I am terribly selfish to know that my life is my own, and that having another significant other doesn't exactly compliment to your own life. Because life is more than love and sex because it is also about trying to survive the mundane and terrifying world we live in.

Being an adult is a scary thing because it means having to hold the weight of responsibility to keep the world turning for the sake of humanity's existence. To think about how to live in order to survive is exactly why I end up being selfish. If I cannot carry my own weight, even more so if I cannot take care of myself, how much more if there was another person involved? The thought scares me as much as I love the idea of romancing a man more than it does when I give it my all to the family and friends whom I have lovingly held so close to.

Complexities of myself led me to that conclusion. Another is perhaps the idea of commitment that scares me just as it does with romance. Oh but then again, what does it tell you anyway?

haha. until next time on the other side of the screen.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing to see how many short conversations I've written in my high school years. (Have to admit that the way I wrote back then had more expression in comparison to how I write now)

There were some things that remained untouched; some of which involve the supernatural side of things. To say that the chances of having to keep in contact with the supernatural at least once are impossible is no different from saying that we remain young forever. Or to say that we live one life at a time and to be able to see the lives of others in their perspective as a form of reincarnation makes other believe that we can waste as much time as we want because it is a beautiful thought of dying young and only to live a happier life. All these things have one thing in common: the unknown. It isn’t like she lived a life without fear of the unknown. She found out that not only was this a lie, she found out that the unknown is indeed scarier than what others might have thought it would be.

“Am I dead,” the girl asked in terror.

“You might as well be dead,” the man replied in a cynical manner. “If it were not for the fall, you wouldn’t be here.”

The girl looked up and saw the blue sky. “Heaven doesn’t have blue skies. And why are you pressing my arm to the ground?”

“Oh,” the man casually smirked, “I’m just taking precaution, that’s all.”

“Huh?”

She tried to sit up. The sound of shackles clinked on her right arm.

“What’s this?” the girl asked.

“Precaution,” the man bluntly replied.

“Am I… captured?” she started to panic. “Wait, where am I?”

“I’m so sorry dear,” the man said, “Why I should tell you if I don’t even know where you came from.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, seeing one hand free from shackles.

“We only need one hand to shackle you,” the man explained. “the rest is up to you.”


	11. Linda and Spike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short exchange between two characters I've always wanted to write about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some nonsensical scene that came to mind from my other stories.

“Tinders.”

“Mm.”

“You’re watch has ended.”

“I know.”

Under the gleam of the moonlight, her long, tied-back hair glistened. The waft of a cold east wind blew at the watchers as they stood stalk-still on the rooftop of the Great Mansion, also known as the official Telenars’ residence.

She raised the carton-cup’s edge to her lips, drinking the highly caffeinated substance by a few sips. The high-ranking officer soured at the taste of its bitterness. She still had so much to learn in appreciating the beverage.

“What do they call this thing in the Northern Realms?” she asked.

“Coffee,” Porter, her second in command answered. “Although this is merely a substitute. Not made from the actual beans.”

“It’s difficult to imagine such a strong brew came from the weeds’ roots you find on the edges of the pavement.”

“Tinders, sir?” Porter cleared his throat briefly. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be taking over from here.”

“Thank you Porter,” Linda said as she began collecting the disposable cups around her. “Keep your eyes peeled on patrol.”

She then turned to the other watchers on the roof.

“Anyone of you guys have any trash around, pass them over to me,” she announced to the guards on post.

She walked to each of them, collecting their cups and disposable containers for every stop before she climbed down towards the exit. As soon as she shut the door behind her, the heated air within the mansion warmed her cheeks, bringing her to remove her bomber jacket and slung it onto her arm.

“How goes the patrol?”

Linda looked up to find her superior officer, Bartholomew Spike leaning against the wall by the steps.

“Sir,” she nodded in greeting.

“Linda,” he reciprocated her greeting.

She eyed the canister in his hand that just so happens to be hiding behind his leg. She soured a frown and trudged her way towards him and took a strong hold on his arm and raise it high enough to see it within her view.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he panicked at the gesture.

Seeing the canister in full view, she sighed despairingly and took it off his hands with a grump.

“You really can’t help but not take a swig while you’re on duty, can you?” she chided.

“It’s only just a sip,” he retorted.

“It’s unprofessional!”

“And you’re always uptight.”

Linda rolled her eyes and began climbing down the steps.

“Sometimes I wonder why the Telenars put up with you,” she muttered.

“Because I’m the man they need when it comes down to charting the islands of this archipelago,” he replied in his usual smugness. “They’re not natives here, remember? They need my council just as they do with your skills.”

“No, Spike, I’m here to keep you in line,” she chided.


End file.
